This is Fair
by carolina88
Summary: The thoughts that run through Mr. Everdeen's head as he walks to his last day of work. The day of the cave in. One-shot. Rated T because it's The Hunger Games, though doesn't contain bad language.


_**I've edited some of the typos I noticed and resubmitted this. If you catch anymore, just let me know!**_

I gave up trying to decide what was fair a long time ago.

As I walk to the mines, the dirt scuffing the toes of my work boots, I can't help but wonder what my life might've become if I'd grown up in The Capitol. I'd most likely drive a funny car, dye my hair unnatural colors, and talk in a high pitched drawl. I would probably spend my days lying on a sofa in a lavishly furnished apartment, watching re-runs of old Hunger Games, the blood and guts of which wouldn't affect me in the least.

_I'd be anticipating the next one, _I think dryly to myself, which brings my eyes to the young boy scrubbing the display window of the bakery. He sits on the inside, his knees pressed to the glass, his tiny hands red and raw from the tough, scruffy rag. I have to look away. Any of the children in the district could be chosen as tributes. I don't want to remember their faces.

I wonder what my life would be like out of curiosity, not desire. Never would I trade the life I live here in District Twelve – not my wife, my two children, even my job. Though the thought is always in the back of my mind…would it be different…was there somehow a chance of a better life.

I had to make myself stop constantly comparing my life with others, and theirs with others, because when I really stopped to think about it, I realized I never knew the true meaning of the word 'fair'. Not The Capitol's meaning of it, at least. To me, fair meant beautiful; it meant equal. But I've come to learn that, for those who excitedly count down the days until twenty-three children are slaughtered, 'fair' is just a cover for 'greed'.

They throw the word around like it's an excuse for all they do. _It's fair_ to have the hungry beg for their names to be added again to the reaping, since they are rewarded with grain. _It's fair_ for the tributes that are picked to die in the games, because they were picked at random, completely innocently. _It's fair_ to kill twenty-three tributes, because the districts must pay for the wrong doings of their ancestors. _Fair _was a lie. It never truly existed in their world.

"Back again, Everdeen?"

I'm pulled from my thoughts by Hardy, the man who works the check-in station at the mines. His job shouldn't irritate me. After all, every person of District Twelve must be accounted for daily. But his amiable smile and always friendly conversation puts aside my distaste for his role in our society.

"I couldn't stay away," I reply lightheartedly, punching in my card.

He smiles, and I see where his front tooth is missing. "I thought for sure that yesterday would be the last I'd see of you."

His joke is a frequent one of ours. He tells me that I always look like I'm one step away from leaving, one wrong move away from taking my family into the unknown to live in the woods.

If I'm being honest, the thought has crossed my mind. In fact some days the only thing keeping me here is Prim. She's so small, so innocent. I couldn't ask her to shoulder that kind of burden. _Now Katniss, _I smile inwardly, she's my fighter. She would be strong enough to handle living in the wilderness, though she'd worry for Prim's sake above her safety. My wife was another story; I already knew that she would go with me, no questions asked. She was that brave, or either that trusting of me.

The elevator ride down is silent – apart from the timid chirping of the mockingjay. It sits in the corner on its perch, making quiet, squeaky noises, as if afraid to completely sing in a room of crowded strangers. They were curious like this, mockingjays. In the mines, their silence meant danger, something that would normally worry me. But today I was glad for the quiet. It let me think.

_Is this fair?_ I rub the cold metal of the elevator against my knuckles and listen to the now half-sung tune of the bird, our messenger. I knew the answer to my own question. It wasn't fair that my nails were never rid of black coal dust. It wasn't fair that my daughters were sitting in a classroom where a teacher told them 'what saviors' The Capitol rulers are, that my wife was pacing the kitchen, trying to come up with a suitable meal for the starving patient on out table. That hurt the most, knowing that they were exposed to the injustice as well.

The doors open, and we begin to file out singly, each merging into masses that led to our designated stations. I twirl my pick in my hand and walk to the piece of wall I left yesterday, and begin where I left off.

Sounds are our most useful senses down here. The echoes of the caves can carry your words down as far as they please, leaving little need to do anything but keep to your spot, slowly chipping away at the wall. The rock had sounds too. The strike of the pick resonates deeper where the coal is thick, and lighter where there is a pocket. And the mockingjay, of course. The sound of its singing is the most important.

I listen carefully for the song, eventually picking up a few notes of it. Just enough to catch what song it is. The mockingjay has chosen an eerie song today, one that visibly sets off some of the other workers, making them squirm in their boots.

The lines of The Hanging Tree vibrate softly off of the cave walls, making it sound like there's more than just one bird. The sound is…terrifying. It reminds me of the look on my wife's face when she caught me singing The Hanging Tree to our children, frozen in terror and anger. I knew I was wrong, I shouldn't have planted that song in their heads. I don't know why I did, really. Maybe I thought they could handle a song that sang truth.

It's always been a beautiful song, but now all I feel from it is a sense of serene fear. I'm suddenly aware of how dark it is. _Is it always this dark?_ I hold my hands out in front of my face, just making out their outline.

I feel that thing that Katniss does, that look in her eyes that I catch every morning as I say goodbye. I noticed it this morning too. It's concern, and it's the only time she shows any vulnerability.

"We need light," someone declares from the darkness. "I'm gonna go find a lamp." I hear his footsteps leave, and the elevator door creak shut as it makes its journey back up to the air. The mockingjay's tune falters for a second, then picks back up at a slow, steady pace.

In the damp cave, I feel alone. I feel isolated in the dark, and I'm suddenly scared. I desperately cling to the wall behind me, threatened by the darkness surrounding me. My family would be beside themselves if they saw me.

My family. That thought brings me a little peace. I picture their faces one by one, my wife, Prim, and lastly Katniss. Her face is the most crisp in my mind. I can see the strength in her eyes, the determined pout in her lips, the slight knit in her eyebrows. Above all, I see my baby. I see her kind, strong heart.

My breathing slows back to normal. I know she is safe, and I know they are safe with her. I relax a bit, crouching down to sit on the cold cave floor.

_This is fair_, I tell myself. _This is what your life was supposed to be. _

I close my eyes, peacefully. I barely notice when the mockingjay stops singing.

_**Okay, so I kind of lied . I said that after my story, "Here is My Family," I'd write something happy…which I will, eventually. Thank you for reading, reviews are greatly appreciated. Also, if you haven't read my other story, it's about Mrs. Everdeen, and you should check it out. Thanks for reading! **_


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